


Packing

by Goober



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen, Humor, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goober/pseuds/Goober
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haydn almost gets his clock cleaned, and learns about dicks in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packing

Haydn would have thought the two tank tops, and the (albeit torn, worn down, an almost disintegrated) leather armor would have been enough to avoid this bullshit. He didn’t repress the roll of his eyes when the caravaneer bypassed the clearly better covered, more masculine armor, in favor of the feminine halter top.

“No thanks,” he said with a hard grate to his tone, moving to grab onto the other set of armor available. He felt the material, silently judging it, if only to ignore the silent judging the woman did of him. “Do you do repairs?”

She nodded, “Yea, but that’ll cost you extra, son.” The woman ignored the surprised quirk of his brow. “You want me to take in the crotch at all, or are you gonna try packing?”  
“Try what?” Haydn blinked.

“Packing,” she replied evenly, “knew a fella like you ‘cept he shoved a load ‘a socks in his pants. Called it packing, said it was supposed to look like a man’s crotch.”

He was silent for a moment, a dusting of redness spread across his nose and ears for a second, growing hotter from something that was not the Wasteland sun. Haydn had never heard of this packing thing, no one he had ever met felt the need to touch at him or ogle that bit. Maybe he should have been paying more attention to how he appeared, in more places than just the top.

“That’s … an idea,” he coughed. “Can you leave it out then? And-”

“No socks, sorry kid.” While Haydn dug in his pockets for the caps, she added, “Try Moira, in Megaton. Gal’s usually got a better selection of clothing than simple traders.”

  


Half a cigarette is burning in his left hand, listening idly to Three Dog have a vocal orgasm about some Vault Kid in the background. Haydn is sitting at the bar of Moriarty’s Saloon, staring at the fresher pair of socks he bought; they’re faded, and one of them has a small hole in the sole, but they’re less worn out than the ones he stuck on his feet. He forgot how nice new socks could be, and part of him wonders if it’s really worth it to sacrifice them for appearances.

“Gob, my usual.” The thick drawl was all he needed to know before the older ex-Raider slumps into the seat next to Haydn.

“On your tab, or you gonna finally pay your debt?” The snicker the ghoul dare wouldn’t make is heavy behind his words, as he slides Jericho his glass of whiskey.

“Watch your tone, zombie, ‘fore I tell Moriarty you’re slow on service.” Jericho sneers.

“Lay off him,” Nova sighs in annoyance, drawing all three men’s eyes to her.

Haydn looks away, puts out his cigarette, and listens absently to the banter between Nova and Jericho. The two of them always seems to get into it, and he doesn’t understand why she pays him any mind. Jericho’s shifting position on the bar stool makes him look down, eyes traveling over the front of the mercenary's pants. There’s an impressive amount of muscle beneath the armor, a noticeable fold by his thigh that conceals him.

“HEY!” _Oh shit, oh shit_ \- Haydn’s eyes snap up to Jericho’s face as he realizes he’d just been staring directly at the other man’s dick. “The fuck you think you’re doing?!”

Haydn shoves the socks into the pocket of his shirt, and goes to stand when Jericho’s hand smacks the middle of his chest. He lands on his ass, palms stinging as he failed to catch his fall, staring up at the ex-Raider. “Sorry, man, I just-” He hardly has time to explain before he’s hauled up by the strap of his gun holster, jostling the pistol strapped to his side.

“Take it outside, boys,” Gob says with an annoyed sigh.

Haydn’s back is against the railing before he can really react. One hand is trying to pry Jericho’s from his throat, while the other arm is pinned at the crook of his elbow by the other’s fist. He’s in Haydn’s face, all but toppling him over the rusted rails, hot breath of whiskey, and the unmistakable rot of irradiated food makes his mouth twist in disgust.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain why you were doin’ what you just did?” Teeth are bared in his face, and Haydn turns his head to the side to avoid it. “Don’t tell me you didn’t expect this, fuckin’ idiot.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. Okay? I just, I needed to figure something out. If you help me I can pay yo-”

“Pay me? Do I look like a goddamn who-”

“No - fuck - not like that. Will you shut up for two seconds?” He sighs and adds “I just need someone to help me make … make something look like …”

“Look like…?” Jericho prompts, curtly.

“Look like a … uh … well, like a dick.” Haydn’s face goes several shades of red, from ear to ear, and his mouth sets in a hard line. Eyes on the ground; he can’t look at Jericho right now.

The other man went silent for a moment, before he lets out a barking laugh. “Well, no shit.” He backs off, taking a step back and folding his arms. Eyes scan Haydn before he speaks again. “Well you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, kid? What the fuck makes you think I’ll help you?”

Haydn adjusts the front of his shirt with a grunt. “50 caps says you can stand in a doorway and tell me how I look.”

“100,” Jericho rolls his eyes, “I’m not helpin’ some kid fix his dick for 50 caps. It’s gotta be worth it for me too, idiot.”

“50 caps and two chems. Don’t look at me like that, you were a Raider. You’ve been into some shit, too.” Haydn groans and pulls out a satchel, the contents clinking together, and passes it to Jericho.

He digs through the bag and drags out two syringes of Psycho, and an unopened bottle of whiskey that Haydn said nothing about. “Alright. Lead the way.” He gestures, tossing back the satchel, and using his teeth to uncork the bottle of liquor.

  


“Okay, how does this look?” Haydn asks, not for the first time in so many minutes, emerging from the stall. Down to his boxers, feeling more than a little exposed.

Jericho diligently leans against the door to the men’s bathroom, knowing the lock on it had rusted off ages ago. He lowers the lip of the glass from his mouth and snorts loudly, grimacing as the burn of alcohol runs up his throat. “Like you’re real fuckin’ happy to see me.” Then, more seriously, “Good place, but too much. Try one less whatever.”

Haydn ducks back into the stall, removing one of the socks, and fiddling with the other in the flap. The only real benefit to the weird flap in boxers, honestly.

“So how do you find enough shit you need to cover up?” Jericho asks suddenly, breaking the silence that had lasted the first couple tries.

“It’s not easy,” he says, “most of the time I just take whatever I can from dead Wasters or buy what I need from traders but … it gets expensive to buy enough shirts to layer up.”

“Why don’t you just let Doc fix your top half? He’ll do it for ya.”

Haydn shrugs. “I’m not so sure Doc knows what he would be doing, and I’m not about to fuck up my body for convenience. Wasteland doctors know enough to heal basic scrapes and stitch up gunshot wounds. This is … more complicated.”

The ex-Raider nods. “I hear that.”

Haydn walks out again, raising a brow in silent question.

“Looks good, kid. Much better.” A pause, then, “Do it with your armor. If it don’t feel right, we try again.”

He slips on the bottom half of his armor, adjusting where he needs. The sock presses oddly into his leg, the scratchy material nowhere near natural. But from what he can see, there’s definitely something different about the area. Slightly off and not quite like he’d seen on Jericho, but it isn’t flat and annoyingly obvious between the thighs. Haydn smiles wide, and glances up.

“That’ll do it,” Jericho says approvingly. “Looks like you’re happy” he adds, corking the liquor and shoving it into his back pocket. “How ya feel?”

“Good. Really, really, good.” Haydn turns a bit, looking at how differently he appears from another angle.

“Great. Well, I’m out,” the other man turns and opens the door, before pausing in its doorway. “Oh, and, Haydn …”

“Yeah?”

“If I catch you starin’ at my dick again, I’ll beat the shit outta you.”


End file.
